The Daevatalia Suite
by Warpath Grizzly
Summary: A series of one-shots inspired The Daeva Suite by Renard. Characters include Feliciano, Romano, Ludwig, Arthur, Ivan, Gilbert, Alfred, Kiku, Francis, Matthew, etc.
1. Introduction

A Note from Grizzly and Blaklite

Daeva: a false god/demon, a supernatural being with undesirable characteristics (Zoroastrian origin)

The Daevatalia Suite is a series of one-shots inspired by the album The Daeva Suite by Renard. Theoretically, one could call them songfics though Grizzly and I do not appreciate this term since the stories were INSPIRED by, not based on the songs (because there are no words, it leaves everything up to interpretation). It's not essential that you listen to the songs while reading the stories, however they may help set the mood and help you understand where we are coming from with these ideas. The music is also pretty good, as long as you like techno.

So without further ado, we give you…

~ The Daevatalia Suite ~


	2. Part I

**Part I**

By Blaklite

Romano wasn't entirely sure why he was sitting in a pew at the back of Santa Maria del Popolo. He had been sitting around with his platoon trading stories when he had felt called to go to a church. He had arrived near the end of mass but had remained long after everyone, even the priest, had left. Motionless, Romano had simply sat and stared at the high altar longer than anyone, even himself, could guess, questioning his presence in this holy place. All he knew was that he needed to be here, needed to be close to God. By the end of his musings, South Italy was sure that God had called him here.

Rising slowly, Romano made his way over to a group of white candles nearby. Grabbing one of the unlit candles with the grace of someone who had done it many times, Romano lit the wick using the flame of another candle and placed it back in its slot. Walknig back to the pew he had originally been sitting on, his black military boots echoing off the old stone walls with each step, Romano knelt, clasped his hands, and began to pray.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…"

The sign of the cross felt almost too holy for him to perform on himself, a sinner, a killer. He had shot men, innocent pawns in this game of war. On top of that, he had entered the church in his military uniform, itself a symbol of war. He didn't feel worthy of forgiveness, worthy of being shown mercy. But old habits die hard and so he crossed himself anyways.

Romano prayed for everything and anything that came into his mind. He prayed for this war to end, for Rome to be free as it should be. He prayed for the elderly couple that lived on Via Tanaro, for the Allies to come swiftly yet spare them the bombings, for food to fill the piazzas once again, for the suffering of soldiers dying of their wounds to end quickly, for the neighbour's canaries that sang so beautifully, for winter to be merciful this year, and for his brother.

Especially for Veneziano.

His little brother had lost his way thanks to this war. He had stopped going to church, spent more and more time amongst the military elite discussing matters of war, and had begun to believe everything that damn German told him. If Germany ordered him to bark, North Italy wouldn't think twice about obeying. And Romano had no choice but to obey his brother.

While battles raged in the south with bombings becoming an everyday occurrence, the north remained peaceful and unharmed by the taint of war. Veneziano commanded him to fight, but Veneziano didn't feel his pain as the Allies and the Axis clashed on his lands. Romano was tired of it all, and so were his people.

The large wooden doors of the church creaked open before he heard the last person he wanted to talk to just then call for him.

"Fratello!"

Romano didn't even bother getting up as his brother marched closer.

"Romano, why aren't you on patrol with your men?"

"We hadn't been given orders to do so," was his reply, no emotion showing through though he seethed with rage inside.

"Well I'm giving you the order now. You know better than to leave your platoon while on duty."

"And _you_ know better than to desecrate a house of God with your talk of war instead of peace."

Standing up, Romano turned around and glared at his brother, little Veneziano all dressed up in his blue-and-black uniform, proudly upholding the ideals of the fascist regime. The war had yet worn him down as it Romano. If anything, it made his little brother look like a little boy playing dress-up.

"Have you become such a heretic that you have stopped respecting God, Veneziano?"

"Have you become such a coward that you would abandon your men? Your people?"

"Keeping this war alive is harming our people, not helping them."

"Perhaps the same is true of this faith."

Romano felt as if he had been struck. He couldn't believe that his brother, his Veneziano, would say something like that. Before he could retaliate, Veneziano began to step closer to Romano's frozen body.

"It is this belief in a being of another world that is keeping us from this one. If everyone were more interested in upholding the State rather than the Church we wouldn't have war and people wouldn't go hungry. If everyone just followed Il Duce then we would see a rich and glorious Italy! Think of it fratello, we would be like grandpa Rome."

Veneziano was smiling, but it was a cracked and broken one; the naïve smile of the twisted dreamer. Romano suddenly felt pity for him.

"Wasn't it you, little brother, who always said that grandpa Rome had disappeared because he became too powerful?"

"Don't worry, Romano. Ludwig will take care of us; he'll make sure nothing goes bad. You'll see, with his help we will become great." Veneziano had gotten closer but the smile remained in place.

Romano couldn't stand looking into those hope-filled, deluded eyes any longer, and so settled on looking back at the altar. "You don't understand, Veneziano. The only one who can get us through this war is God."

"What has God ever done for us? Taken away our grandfather? Made us the slaves of every other nation? Wracked our people with plagues?" Veneziano angrily stalked over to Romano's pew, looking about ready to punch him in the face. He stopped and stared at his elder brother for a long while but Romano's expression remained stoney. Suddenly, Veneziano's gaze dropped to the floor and he turned around, heading for the exit.

He stopped just short of the outside.

"No, Romano," he retorted from the doorway. "God cannot save us now."

And he was gone, leaving Romano alone with the depictions of saints and angels, and the gently burning candles once again. Turning around slowly to stare at the front of the church, Romano asked with a touch of hopelessness in his voice, "God, what must I do?"

His prayers were answered when a nail bomb exploded outside of the church. One of the nails had been sent flying through the open doors and into Romano's back, nearly puncturing a lung.

That's when he decided to join the partisans. Rome was freed three weeks later on June 4th, 1944. It would be another year, during the surrender of Italy, until Romano would get to see his brother again.


	3. Part II a

**Part IIa**

By Warpath Grizzly

Sweat covered the men's brows as Colonel Rommel led the Panzer Army Afrika towards the Allied forces. Before them lay nothing but sand and the occasional greenish brown shrubbery that happened to crop up for some unknown reason. They perplexed Ludwig so much that eventually he refused to look at them. He simply turned his body towards the panzer and shielded his face from the blistering sun above. Stupid shrub. How dare it grow in such an inhospitable land, with no water to give it life? How dare it be so green when everything had been killed off from the drought that plagued the land. Even some of his soldiers had died from the lack of water, yet here was it was in it's lively state, perfectly happy to exist in such an infertile place. To take his mind of the little green annoyance, he listened in on his soldier's conversations. They were all scared of course, but of very different things. One young boy didn't want to die in the African desert simply because he had a beautiful young girl back home waiting for him. Some of the other soldiers chuckled at him. They were much older than him, and had wives and children waiting for them at home. While they were still concerned about the same thing as the younger private, they thought more of the fact that they needed to provide for these people, never mind just make it home to their wives. Their children depended on them to bring home enough money to put food in their mouths.

"Brace yourselves men!"

The colonel called as they neared the ridge that the English Camp was bordered by. Ludwig stood on his tank and watched as the camp came into view. He felt his heart sink when he realised Arthur would probably be back in England, trying to take down a few of his Luftwaffe. A shame; he really had hoped to see his friend's face again. However he supposed it was best to keep the island nation out of the battles if he wanted to survive them. Ludwig doubted that even a nation could survive a blast from a tank; though admittedly he hadn't tested that theory.

As soon as the first two panzers mounted the dune and crossed into the sight of the camp, the firing began.

* * *

Arthur Kirkland nearly fell off his horse when he saw the bold and brash young blond standing topside of the panzer as it crossed the ridge. Ludwig had always been brash, but it seemed something had snapped in him, and he'd finally crossed the fine line over to stupidity.

"Charge the tanks! Take them down!"

He heard General Ritchie command forcefully, the order was swiftly carried out, but not before the whole army revealed itself from behind the dune. The wind began to pick up, throwing sand into the eyes of the men, severely throwing off their aim. Covering his own eyes, Arthur was able to clearly see several of his finer soldiers running towards the tank Ludwig was on, and aim their guns.

Fear rose up into Arthur's throat as he spurred on his horse through the swirling sand, if the German got his hands on any of his soldiers it would be the death of them. Knowing a nation's strength it would be easy even for the weakest of them to tear a human limb from limb, and he would eat blood and sand before he let Ludwig lay a finger on any of his men.

* * *

The English shouted, barking orders at their underlings, scrambling beneath the pressure of the incoming tanks. Caught by surprise, preparations were made with haste, and fumbling was common. A few brave souls had managed to mount horses and grab guns, but as for the most of them, they were like ants in a rainstorm. A harsh wind began to pick up as the last tank made its appearance, and Ludwig mentally prepared himself for the carnage to come.

What he hadn't expected, however, was for Arthur to come riding through the sand as though he was an Arabian Knight. He charged through his own lines, completely oblivious to the shouts of protest that his men sent forward in hopes of stopping the enraged nation. Directing his horse at the oncoming tank, Arthur took his feet out of the stirrups, pushed himself up so as to crouch on his horse's back, and flung himself at Ludwig with a roar that reminded Ludwig of a lion. Too shocked to react, Ludwig let the Englishman crash into him, sending both men tumbling down the dune, finally stopping when they partially rolled up the side of another.

* * *

Sheltered from the fight at least momentarily, England took the time to wipe his face of the sand that had stuck to him from the fall. Coughing up a few grains he looked over at Ludwig, who was on his back, the sand in his hair seeming to turn beige compared to the golden strands. His chest rose and fell quickly, but not because of a loss of breath.

A single tear managed to slip past the gloved hands that were covering Ludwig's face. It was wiped away quickly, but not quickly enough for England to be ignorant of its presence.

It took England by surprise, but when he began to think about it, he was a much older nation than Ludwig. He had far more experience on the battlefield than the German, seen far more men die surrounded by pools of their own blood, screaming in agony. After centuries of war, he had grown accustomed to it, becoming almost desensitised. Ludwig had not had this time, and Arthur could tell that the war was hitting him the hardest, possibly out of all the nations.

Crawling over to him, Arthur put his hand on Ludwig's arm, gripping it tightly. A moment later Ludwig removed his hands from his face, revealing red eyes and many more tears than just the one that had managed to sneak past him. He looked up at England, his blue eyes filled with the pain of his people.

"I don't want to fight you anymore..."

He said, his voice nearly breaking.

"I know, Ludwig."

England sighed heavily and pressed his forehead to Ludwig's. The sounds of tanks, bullets and dying men filled both their ears, and England, too, shed a tear before whispering to the man beneath him;

"I know."


	4. Part II b

**Part IIb**

By Blaklite

_Not much farther now. Not much farther…_

He had crossed into Lapland just a few minutes ago, but it might as well have been seconds, or days.

_Almost there. I'm almost there…_

His boots were nearly gone, worn away by the miles and miles of rock and forest and river. But he didn't notice. He barely noticed how the thin sheet of snow that clung desperately to the early days of May burned his toes with its cold bite. He had to be like the May, he had to shrug off the snow and keep trudging on, trudging on…

To him.

_My beloved, I'm almost there…_

His heart began to beat faster as thoughts of the other man sprung to mind. He couldn't tell if it was from happiness or fear. The other man had always been a bit frightening, but he wasn't afraid of seeing the tall blonde again. He was afraid that the Swede would be afraid of seeing _him_, seeing what he had become.

_Everything will be alright again soon. Perfect, like before…_

Tears silently made their way down his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe them away. He couldn't. His hands were too busy trying to wring away the blood stuck to his fingers.

_Before he came…_

Memories flooded his already too-full mind of that time so long ago. He still remembered the thunder of cannons, the crack of muskets, the ringing of saber against saber. He had killed then, too, but war had seemed so much nobler back then. Back when he'd had to fight off the invading armies of that violet-eyed demon with his love by his side. But love hadn't been enough to save them.

_Before he tore us apart…_

It would have been the 110th anniversary of the Treaty of Fredrikshamn in September. One hundred ten years since the signing of that cursed paper. One hundred ten years since ice cold fingers had wrapped around his wrist, and wrenched him from the warm embrace of his one true love. One hundred ten years in possession of that Russian demon. One hundred ten years of relative peace for his people, and loneliness and despair for him.

_Before all this…_

He vaguely registered the sensation of falling before his hands reached out and kept him from hitting his head on the rock. Dulled pain began to spread through his palms, but, looking at his hands, he couldn't distinguish between his blood and the blood of others already there.

_Before I killed all those people…_

The memories faded, and reality hit him all too quickly. The rat-tat-tat of machine guns, the boom of artillery, and the screams of civilians. Sounds that didn't exist suddenly became far too loud for him. He tried to cover his ears, but the battle continued around him. They were killing each other, his own people, brother against brother. And he was killing them, too. The rifle in his hands was so heavy, heavy with guilt, and shame, and sadness, but still he didn't even think twice before executing one of his own. He must have killed dozens and dozens of Red and White soldiers alike, but each face was just as clear in his mind as that of the blue-eyed man he loved so much.

_Oh God, what have I done…?_

The sounds stopped and he was in the forest once again. But the silence was even more frightening than the cacophony of battle. Now he could not escape the fact that he was well and truly alone. Alone, and bleeding, and broken.

_He'll come find me, he must…_

Finland couldn't find the strength to get up. He couldn't even find the strength to think. So instead he stayed kneeling upon the rocky surface, arms limp at his sides, and let the emotions run. Sadness, guilt, anger, shame, hopelessness. It was all so heavy, like the pistol in his hand.

_Sve…_

"Minä rakastan sinua."

_Good-bye._

Click.


	5. Part III

Part III

By Warpath Grizzly

Winter had long since spread its icy fingers across the city of Moscow, and now that night had spread its own dark cloak across the sky, the cold only felt more bitter. The citizens of Russia were but slaves to the snow that enveloped them eight months of the year, and Ivan Braginski was no exception. He of all people knew the torments that General Winter was so well known for, and he knew all too well how fond the general was of human frailty. A sudden gust of wind brought with it the voice of the all too familiar spirit drifting into Ivan's ears.

_Follow me..._

The voice called softly as another swirl of wind brought both the snow and Ivan towards an alley that might as well have been no more than a crack in a wall for how thin it was. The old brick had crumbled under the weight of the years as they passed so much so that now the weary stone was in danger of becoming dust at the slightest human touch. Ivan took great care not to touch the walls as he walked forward into the alley, fearing that they would crumble over him should he brush against them. A few doors lined the walls, making Ivan wonder how the doors opened, never mind how people could live in such a cramped space. He barely had enough room for his shoulders.

The wind died down as he entered, fading to nigh non-existent. There was an almost eerie stillness to the place. It was too still, something Ivan didn't like. Nothing moved, there was no life. Not one bit. No cat or rat or insect stirred. Not even the occasional snowflake drifted down from the sky. The place smelt of death. Stagnant, unwavering, death.

It was a smell Ivan was all too familiar with. Like tar and roses; sick, but sweet as well. It made him want to gag, but he couldn't afford to show weakness in a place that had become as predatory as any living being. Ivan stepped forward a few more times, pressing through the silence and death as though it was knee deep water holding him back. A soft squelch alerted Ivan to the presence of a freshly dead rat underfoot, though he was positive that this animal could not have been the cause of such a perpetual death. As significant as any death was, rats didn't usually hold an emotion powerful enough to reside beyond their lives. The source of the stagnation was tucked away in a far doorway, just three from where the alley ended. Had Ivan not had an eye for such things, he would have simply walked past the corpse, unknowingly enraging its former soul into further turmoil. He walked towards the body, stiff from rigor mortis or the cold Ivan could not tell, though he could venture a guess that it was probably both. By the smell, it had been here for about three days, allowing time for both elements to take over. The woman's eyes were glassed over, pale like the sky had been that very morning. Could her eyes still see the sky? Were they still witnessing the world pass before them?

Looking her over, it was easy to see why she had frozen to death. Her clothes clung to her like her skin to her bones. She wasn't dressed warm enough to survive a summer night let alone a winter night in one of the coldest places on earth. At least she didn't have enough fat on her to help her survive. It would have made her passing quicker. The woman's hands clutched at a meager blanket that had been wrapped around her shoulders in a last ditch effort to keep out the cold. Ivan scoffed. That piece of fabric wouldn't even have kept out the light had he held it up to the sun. Her feet were curled under her body, protected by socks that didn't even cover her toes which poked out from beneath the millimeter thick blanket.

A small voice drew Ivan's attention to the end of the alley, which opened up onto one of the busiest market streets Moscow had to offer. In his mind's eye, Ivan could see the street, lit with the crisp glow of the sun, with people of every shape and size going to and fro, looking at tattered old books on wooden carts or clothing hung on metal racks that squealed horribly whenever someone moved a hangar to get a better look at a blouse or jacket. There would be old, fat women with fox furs trotting about buying things they didn't need with money they didn't have, and young men trying to sell pocket watches or knives or anything else they could hide under their trench coats. Right there, under the chatter of the locals, the cries of a little girl looking for her mother, and the bartering of shop keepers, was a tiny tiny voice that barely anyone could hear calling out;

_Save her... please..._

But the child was real...

Ivan looked up and saw a small girl, with a bright red babushka covering her dirty brown hair. Her shawl flapped viciously in the wind which nearly drown out her voice as she cried out into the snowy darkness.

"Mama? Mama?"

She yelled, but General Winter put his icy hand over her little pink lips.

_Save her..._

The corpse spoke again, its eyes shifting towards the child in the street. Ivan stood still, watching as General Winter covered her eyes next. The girl flailed her arms, dropping the small box she had been carrying. It spilled its contents onto the snow, revealing ten or twelve long sticks with what appeared to be ash at one end.

Matches.

"Magdalena!"

A voice not his own suddenly burst forth from Ivan's chest, drawing blood from his mouth and pouring a small dribble down his chin. The child's head turned towards him, though she could not see him for the blizzard before her.

"Mama!"

She called, knowing her mother's voice, distinct from every other sound in the world. General Winter glared for a moment before relinquishing his hold on the girl. He slinked backwards, leaving a good deal of space between himself and Ivan as the living man marched forward through the snow and scooped up the little girl in his arms. He carried her off, getting about to the end of the market street when he stopped, and sniffed the air.

Death; in his arms.

The death of about three days time.


End file.
